


My Lack

by FadedSepia



Series: Before the Rain Began [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Songfic, Unhealthy Relationships, angsty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22162591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: The parameters for this arrangement of theirs were Clint’s to decide. They always had been; from the first moment he’d walked into the office to find the younger agent curled up and sobbing underneath his desk after their second assignment, and right up until now.Painful or not, neither Phil nor Clint seems quite able to stop their crashing back into each other.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Before the Rain Began [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595239
Comments: 18
Kudos: 36
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo





	My Lack

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a series of Phil Coulson/Clint Barton songfics that starts with _**Crawl Inside**_. The stories won’t be posted chronologically (this one will probably end up being number four or five in the series), but I’ll be rearranging them as they go up. Aside from background hints and the first story in this series, I’m relatively inexperienced to writing this pairing, but I hope you enjoy the story.
> 
> Shout outs and thanks to Sevdrag and Weepingnaiad for beta reading, and to Weepingnaiad and Spaceluna for pestering me to actually get this up.

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

_I don’t understand about complementary  
colors and what they say:  
Side by side they both get bright;  
together they both get gray_

**↞ ↢ Mid 2005 ↣ ↠**

Phil dropped the headset from behind his ear, letting himself relax for a moment. His intelligence had panned out. Even with him doing coordination out of a civilian hotel, they hadn’t lost a single agent; had even managed to take a few members of the cell alive this time, along with some of their data. He just had to get through this initial debrief.

May had a handle on bringing in the rest of their field agents, and Rumlow was with her. He’d put together a better than decent team, and he could be proud of that. Assembling this much talent had been no mean feat; SHIELD had no shortage of agents, but very few with the particular skill-sets required for operations like this.

One such agent had already returned, signature skill – or was it a persistent habit? – focused on him at the moment, quite literally. From the lobby of the hotel, Phil Coulson only needed to look up.

Having finished his duties well before the operation wrapped, Agent Barton had drifted back to the hotel in the interim. Perched atop the atrium rail, a good twelve stories high, Hawkeye looked both out of place and perfectly at ease. Meeting Phil’s gaze, he tipped his head, hand lifting in the barest of waves before he swung his legs back over the other side of the rail.

Phil returned his attention to the tablet computer on the low table in front of him. He needed to update a few documents and send an email off to Fury before the field debrief.

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

**__** _I don’t understand about  
the weather outside,  
or the harmony in a tune,  
or why somebody lied._

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

The meeting had been short, and everyone had scattered as soon as the projector screen went blank; they were all wanting showers, meals, and sleep. Hill and May would be going back to headquarters tonight, while Rumlow, himself, and Barton wouldn’t head out until morning.

As it ended, Phil’s phone buzzed in his pants, vibrating against his hip, Billy Joel singing softly from his pocket. “ _I was stranded in the combat zone, I walked through Bedfor-!”_

He pressed the button to silence it; Phil knew exactly who it was, anyway. He tucked his tablet into his briefcase, made sure no one had left any documents behind, and locked up the room. Only then did Phil pull out his phone, swiping to unlock it and read the message

 **Hawkeye [22:41]** _East service elevator. Garage level 3. ETA 11 minutes._

He checked his watch. _22:49_. He could make it on time, if he hurried. His palms itched as the familiar expectant tremor started up between his lungs. Things hadn’t been the same, not for a long while, but Phil was nothing if not hopeful. Hopeful, but not desperate. He kept his pace casual, even foregoing his usual brisk walk for the most leisurely amble he could manage.

When he arrived, Hawkeye was waiting beside the service elevator, the picture of indiscretion as he slumped against the wall, only the light SHIELD windbreaker over his black and purple gear. “Just wondering if you wanted to come up for a bit?”

“Certainly.” Phil walked past him to press the elevator button, stepping into the car as soon as the doors opened. Clint followed, resuming his lean against the back wall as the car climbed.

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

**__** _But he’s been pretty much yellow,  
and I’ve been kind of blue,  
but all I can see is red, red, red.  
Now, what am I gonna do?_

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

Clint was pressing him up against the hotel room door the moment he latched it, bracketing Phil with his arms. His mouth settled in the hollow at Phil’s throat, the larger man’s body pinning him in place as Clint’s hands dropped to his belt, working the buckle open before fumbling at his fly.

With teeth grazing down his neck, and the post-mission high still thrumming through him, it didn’t matter whether this was what Phil had wanted when he’d followed Hawkeye into the lift; he gasped, already half-hard as Clint palmed him through his boxers.

Taking that as acquiescence, Clint nipped sharply just across his collar bone, wrenching a moan from his throat. He tightened his left hand against Phil’s hip, sinking to his knees.

“Damn, did I miss you.” Cheek pressed into Phil’s stomach, the blond skimmed one hand down the outside of his thigh, the other still firmly cupped against his cock.

Through the haze of startled arousal that had settled in his brain, Phil felt a stab of hurt, bordering on betrayal. Clint wasn’t talking about him. “Something you wanted?”

Clint hummed his agreement, nuzzling against Phil’s shorts, breath warm through the thin cotton fabric. “Feels like you want the same thing.”

What Phil Coulson wanted was to scream. He wanted to push Clint off, to run from the room without looking back. He wanted to yank Barton up by his vest straps and shake him, yell, ask what was happening, why this was the only time Hawkeye spared him a second glance. Phil wanted to curl his fingers in Clint’s hair and fuck his gorgeous mouth until he choked, and to shoot himself for thinking it. “At least get to the bed.”

He got a grin in answer. Clint scrambled up from the floor, fumbling his way to the adjoining bedroom as he stripped. Phil didn’t bother with anything more than taking off his suit coat and tie. He draped both over the entryway chair, slid out of his shoes, then trailed slowly after Hawkeye.

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

**__** _I’ve been watching all the time,  
and I still can’t find the tack  
But I wanna know is, is it okay? Is it just fine?  
Or is it my fault? Is it my lack?_

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

The parameters for this arrangement of theirs were Clint’s to decide. They always had been; from the first moment he’d walked into the office to find the younger agent curled up and sobbing underneath his desk after their second assignment, and right up until now. Phil might offer more than he wanted to give – might have already given Clint more than he should have – but he had never pushed for more than what the other freely offered.

Clint had already been up on his knees by the time Phil had stepped into the bedroom, offering quite a view, indeed, and smiling back over his shoulder. Convictions or not, Phil Coulson could admit it would have taken a far stronger man than he to resist. He’d crossed to the bed without thought; readily accepted the proffered condom and lubricant, hands eagerly trailing along freckled skin.

Clint had responded immediately, hurriedly pressing up into him and tumbling them both onto the comforter, frantic and rushing like a man possessed. For all that he had tried – _wanted_ – to savour this, Phil had been pushed to match the other man’s needy pace. Now, Clint pressed back onto his fingers, voice hitching as he spoke.

“Don’t need that... C’mon.”

Once more, he acquiesced. Taking himself in hand, Phil lined up behind him and thrust, sliding home in a single, steady push, watching Clint fist his hands in the sheets and squirm.

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

**__** _But there’s solace a bit in submitting  
to the fitfully, cryptically true.  
What’s happened, has happened.  
What’s coming is already on its way  
with a role for me to play._

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

He wouldn’t have been able to do this unless Clint wanted him to; Phil held no illusions about that. It was pathetic – to his mind more than a bit sick – but if this was what he could get, if _this_ was what their relationship was reduced to, he was going to hold on with both hands.

He tightened his grip on the back of Clint’s shoulder, felt the man tense around him, his moans muffled by the comforter. Phil couldn’t have his heart, but he could have this view of Clint, flushed and writhing across the bed, and he could have the press of Clint’s body beneath his own, the tight clutch of Clint’s ass around his cock. He could know that, if nothing else, Clint would still remember tonight, would still feel what Phil had done to him in the morning.

The man beneath him arched up, loosing a wrecked groan, shoulders tense, hips stuttering then snapping down onto the bedding as he came. Phil hissed as Clint clenched around him. He shifted both hands lower, pulling those hips up to meet his thrusts, even as Clint whimpered, prone and boneless atop the bedding.

He didn’t stop. Hawkeye had wanted this, gone to his knees for it; the least Phil could do was give him what he’d asked for, though it wouldn’t be for too much longer. Hunched forward over Clint, letting his arms hook up around strong shoulders, Phil rutted into the willing body beneath his own.

“Cou- God- Phil!”

Guilt flooded him at the thrill he felt hearing his name tumble past the other man’s lips like a twisted benediction. Phil sobbed, face pressed against the sharp line of Clint’s shoulder blade as he came, the world blinking bright and fractured behind his eyelids.

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

**__** _And I don’t understand  
I never understand,  
but I’ll try to understand  
There’s nothing else I can do_

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

Phil pulled out, rolling onto his back beside the younger agent, chest heaving. He slid the condom off, not bothering to tie it before dropping it into the bedside trash bin, fighting to ignore the slight tinge of red streaked along one side of the latex. “Better?”

“Much.” Clint burrowed his way under the blankets. “Thanks.”

“Mm.” His heart was still hammering in his throat as he pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Phil stood, tucking himself back into his shorts, and tugged his pants up from where they had puddled around his ankles. He smoothed down the cuffs of his shirt, noting absently that he’d lost a button on the left side.

A sleepy mumble drifted up to him from the bed. “Leavin’?”

“I’d rather not, but...” Phil tripped over his words, mind cycling through all the reasons he shouldn’t be there, even as his heart searched for just one half-decent excuse to stay. “There are some... some forms...”

“S’okay.” Clint nodded, eyes already closed, words further muffled as his face pressed into the pillow. “See ya later, Coulson.”

“Until then, Agent Barton.” He closed the bedroom door behind him. Stepping back into his shoes, he snatched coat and tie from the chair, not bothering with either as he hurried from the room. Phil checked the latch once before walking to the elevator.

It was only there – once the doors slid closed, leaving him mocked by the brassy reflection staring back at him – that Phil Coulson finally submitted. He popped the maintenance panel, fighting at the wires before he pressed the button for the third level. Leaning against the back wall of the descending car, he slid down onto the floor, knees drawn up close under his chin, fingers digging in his hair, tears tracing jagged tracks through the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow.

Clint always did like high rooms; he had twenty-seven floors to go before he reached his own bed, and he’d be taking them at half speed. Phil could compose himself by then.

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

**__** _But it’s dangerous work  
Trying to get to you, too  
And I think if I didn’t have to kill  
kill, kill, kill, kill, kill myself doing it  
Maybe I wouldn’t think so much of you_

**↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**

**Author's Note:**

> As usual for this series, the lyrics are rearranged, and – while not all of the song lyrics were included – they are from [_**Red Red Red**_ by Fiona Apple.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0nmODDYJjHI)
> 
> Clint’s ringtone on Phil’s phone is a clip from [_**You May Be Right**_ by Billy Joel.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ilsv0C1-aBw) It just fits _too_ well in my brain.
> 
> **↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**
> 
> **↞ ↢ Clint Barton Bingo:** Sex at Work ↣ ↠
> 
> **↞ ↢ ⟷ ↣ ↠**


End file.
